Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1) Page 2

  Clicking open his case, he extracted two folders before adjusting round wire-rimmed glasses. Erich’s photo was clipped to one folder. His service record.

  Mist blurred Heidi’s vision and she blinked rapidly. “Get out!”

  His head snapped up. So did Mama’s. Nausea churned anew in Heidi’s stomach. Berating Party officials could land one in jail. She sucked in a deep breath.

  Taking off his glasses, the man pinched the bridge of his nose. He turned to Mama. “May I ask who you are?”

  “I am Frau Steinhorst.” Mama rose beside Heidi and wrapped an arm around her. “I must say, you are quite unsympathetic to my daughter’s loss.”

  He exhaled as though striving to keep his patience and selected a form from his papers. “I’m here to help you any way I can.”

  “Are you now? Then bring back my husband. And take his place fighting at the front.” The odious man couldn’t be much older than Erich. Why should he be exempt? “I don’t want your pageantry. We have a minister to help with a funeral. Please leave.”

  This stupid war was all their fault. How dare they make a mockery of Erich by strutting their pageantry! They wanted to honor themselves, not Erich.

  His lips pressed in a grim line, the Party man tossed his papers back into his case and snapped it shut. “I’ll come back in a couple of days when you’re ready to talk. We know you lived in America for several years. Living among the enemy raises questions about your loyalty. You’d be wise to accept our help.”

  The door slammed behind him, rattling the windows.

  Heidi moved to the living room and sank into an overstuffed brown plaid chair. She traced a finger along the pattern. They’d furnished their apartment with secondhand rejects because new furniture was unavailable during the war. Erich had liked the old thing, saying it was better than a hard, straight-back wooden chair.

  Oh, Erich. It was true. He was never coming back. Tears burned in her throat. Her life was over.

  Her mother spoke, but buzzing filled Heidi’s ears and she couldn’t distinguish her words. Something about empty threats and a vile little man. Mama pulled her to her feet and led her to the bedroom. Urging her to lie down, Mama covered her with the afghan crocheted by Grandma Ockstadt for her wedding.

  “Rest, dear. Rest now.” Mama bustled out, closing the door behind her. She would put away the milk, notify Papa, the Wetzels, whoever else needed to know.

  Heidi turned her face into Erich’s pillow, soaking it with her tears. The image of an imploding submarine refused to grant her peace. What happened to Erich’s body at the moment water pressure crushed the hull? Had he suffered? Was death instantaneous? Probably the worst part was the dive, plunging into the abyss, knowing they were doomed. Some men likely screamed in panic, but not her Erich. He would have been brave. She clung to his pillow. Had his last thoughts turned to her?

  The clock’s ticking on the bureau grew louder. Tick tock, tick tock. He’s gone, he’s gone. No, no, no. She clasped a hand over her ear. Even the time mocked her.

  Did the men of U-456 have to die? Would surrender have been so bad? Why had the skipper ordered a dive with the boat so badly damaged? Had Erich objected? Or had he been wounded? She’d probably never learn the answers to the questions that haunted her.

  Shifting to her side, she searched for his official portrait on the bedside lampstand through tear-filled eyes. His image, so handsome in his naval uniform, shimmered in her watery gaze. She turned the frame to better see him. A smaller frame tipped over. Rising on an elbow, she picked up the fallen picture. Two young girls, arms about each other’s shoulders, laughed up at her. Had she really been so carefree, so innocent of the horror to come?

  She studied the image. Rachel Mikolsky had been her best friend during the three years the Steinhorsts had lived in America. Heidi brushed a hand over the picture. She hadn’t seen Rachel in five years, or received a letter from her since America joined the war two years ago. “First I lost your friendship because we’re supposed to be enemies,” she whispered. “Now I’ve lost my husband. I wish… I wish I could turn back time. I wish we’d never come back to Germany.”

  Long, lonely, bleak years stretched out in front of her. She turned her face into the pillow and sobbed.

  Chapter Two

  Camden, Arkansas

  Wednesday, August 4, 1943

  The open-cockpit Stearman biplane vaulted into the sky like it was glad to be free of the earth. The blast of wind in Cadet Paul Braedel’s face snatched his breath away. He banked into an exhilarating, steep curving dive.

  “Yahoo!” This was the life. He soared back up into the crystalline sky. Revving into tailspins, whirling upside down, nothing could wipe the smile from his face. All too soon, his time elapsed. He landed and taxied up to the other cadets in his group. “Did you see that?” He yanked off his goggles and hopped down, still grinning. “That was poetry.”

  His buddy, Davis, laughed. “Poetry, huh? I’d say more like showing off, hotshot.”

  “Just wait until you’re up there, free as a bird. You won’t want to come down either.”

  That night, Paul flopped on his bunk in the barracks at Harrell Field. “I’ve dreamed of flying ever since I read Jules Verne’s From Earth to the Moon. Birds know how to live. Up there, soaring wherever their little hearts desire.”

  Davis sprawled on the next bunk. “Braedel, your head’s still up in the clouds. Even birds have to come down to earth to find their daily worms.” He stabbed a finger in Paul’s direction. “My granddad says if the good Lord wanted us to fly, He’d have given us wings.”

  “And yet that hasn’t stopped you from flying. So tell me, Davis, does your gramps use cars or trucks or buses?”

  “Well, sure.” Davis narrowed his eyes before inclining his head. “Oh, right. If the good Lord wanted us to travel fast, He’d have given us wheels. I’ll have to see what G-Dad has to say about that.”

  Paul hopped up and rummaged in his footlocker. “I need to tell Rachel all about her husband’s great achievement before I forget anything.”

  He pulled a ragged, stuffed yellow dog with floppy brown ears out of his locker and smooched it.

  “Hoo boy, have you got it bad, Braedel.” Davis propped himself up on his elbows. “I can understand your wife sending along some sort of good luck charm, but a dog? You’re kissing a dog. The implication is,” he leaned to the side in order to shake his finger at Paul, “your wife sees herself as a dog.”

  “Wash your mouth out. Peanut here has been with her since she slept in a cradle. She wanted me to take along something of hers so she could experience vicariously my new military life.”

  “Such devotion.” Davis dropped back on his pillow. “All right, take dictation. ‘Dear Sweetie Pie, I miss you outrageously, but every night I kiss your dog.’”

  Davis’s laugh was meant to heckle, but it contained a note of envy. Just last week, he had received a Dear John letter from his erstwhile girlfriend. She’d found someone with a safe job at a ship building plant. Paul could sympathize. Actually, no, he couldn’t. He’d married the only woman he’d ever loved, and they’d been best friends since they were preschoolers.

  Paul shook his head and scrawled quickly as the memories flowed through his fingers. Davis was probably right. He told Rachel far more than she would ever want to know about flying in his daily letters, but today was special.

  Hello Honey,

  You may officially consider yourself the wife of a pilot. I soloed today for the first time. Taxiing to the runway, I knew it’d be a thrill. I’m telling you, Rachel, I was born to fly. It’s been hours since I landed, and the thrill is still embedded in me.

  She’d probably shake her finger and warn him to remember that mythical Greek boy who flew too high, allowing the sun to melt his wings, and plunged to his death. He grinned.

  Don’t worry, love. I’m careful as can be.

  Another cadet poked his head in the doorway of the barracks. “Braedel?”

&
nbsp; Paul raised a hand. “I’m Braedel.”

  “You’re to report immediately to Captain Marsdale’s office.”

  Paul hesitated a moment before setting aside his writing and rolling off his cot. He looked down at Davis. “Why would Captain Marsdale want to see me now? My flight was perfect. Surely I’m not washing out of pilot training.”

  Davis frowned and sat up. “No, that’s not possible. You’re our boy wonder. Maybe you get to skip the next class.”

  “You know that’s not likely. This can’t be good.” He shoved his feet into his shoes, knotted the laces, and set out at a jog across the quiet base. The song of crickets swelled around him, punctuated now and then by a bullfrog’s belch. Clouds obliterated the stars, and the air hung heavy and humid, prelude to a storm.

  Few lights shone from base headquarters. His steps echoed in the deserted corridor. Captain Marsdale called a quiet “Come in” when he knocked. At Paul’s entrance, the captain returned his salute and indicated a chair. “Have a seat, Paul.”

  Paul? Not Braedel? He sat on the edge of the seat. The captain meant to soften a blow. His flight had been good. He toed the line in every respect. Surely he wasn’t about to be washed out of pilot training.

  “I’ve spoken with your father on the telephone.”

  Paul’s spine stiffened. This was about family, not training. One of his grandparents? No, Dad would have cabled, not called. Mom? It must be Mom.

  “I’m sorry I have to tell you this, Paul. Your wife suddenly became ill yesterday. She died during the night.”

  What? Rachel? Died? Paul was on his feet, his hands balled into fists. “What are you saying? Rachel’s fine. I talked to her on Sunday.”

  Captain Marsdale took a deep breath and picked up a paper scrawled with notes. “She had a sudden pain, her mother reported. A fever spiked. Then her blood pressure dropped. By the time they got her to a doctor, she was unconscious. They couldn’t save her.”

  Paul’s knees wavered and he collapsed back onto the chair. Rachel dead? They were supposed to have fifty or sixty years together. They planned on having a couple of kids, visiting the national parks out west, spoiling their grandkids. No, Rachel, you can’t die now.

  His own blood pressure must have dropped. His head swam, and spots danced before his eyes. He folded over, his head between his knees. A hand gripped his shoulder, offering silent support.

  “You’re on immediate leave now, Paul, to go back to Wisconsin. The funeral will be on Friday.”

  The captain’s voice continued, but Rachel’s last words as he left Milwaukee at the train station drowned him out. “I love you, Paul. Don’t get yourself killed. You have to come back to me.”

  Now she’d left him. Coldness to rival a Wisconsin blizzard swept through him to the soles of his feet.

  Paul returned to the barracks. Conversations buzzed around him like mosquitoes. Someone called out his name, but he needed to pack. No, that would be admitting the truth. He slumped onto his cot and stared at the floor. Something crinkled under his leg. He tugged out his letter. No point in finishing it.

  “So, what’s the dope? Hey, Braedel, you look like you’re in shock. You didn’t really wash out, did you?”

  Davis’ hand came into view, flying Peanut back and forth, shaking the dog enough to make its ears flap. Paul slapped it away. Peanut flew of Davis’s hand and slid under his bunk. That was no way to treat Rachel’s favorite toy, but what did it matter anymore? He picked up his letter, crumpled it into a tight wad, and threw it at his pillow. With his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands.

  Davis’s feet inched closer.

  “Paul? What’s going on, buddy?” He touched a light hand to Paul’s shoulder, but kept to the side, as though expecting Paul to take a swing at him. It was tempting.

  He dragged air into his lungs with effort. “She…” His vision blurred. He couldn’t breathe. “She died last night.”

  Simple words. Impossible to grasp.

  “Who, Paul? Who died?”

  “Rachel.” Her name caught in his throat. He dropped his head lower, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “Rachel.”

  The world stood still for an instant. Then Davis sat beside him. “Oh, man, Paul. I’m sorry.”

  Paul lowered his hands, clenching his fists. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was so alive, so healthy, when I left for basic training. Training and fighting in a war meant danger for me. She, on the other hand, should have been safe and snug at home. This can’t be real.” Arguing the facts wouldn’t change them, but he had to try. “If I had been there, I could have gotten her to a doctor right away.”

  Davis leaned forward, opened his mouth, and closed it. No argument. Good. “Now what?”

  “I need to leave for Milwaukee. For the funeral.” The word almost gagged him. “I need to get packed.”

  Paul had so little with him, it didn’t take long to throw everything together. Davis got down on his knees and fished Peanut out from under the bunk. Other guys came over and shook his hand, murmuring sympathy. Gathering his gear, he headed out into the dark night.

  Chapter Three

  Coral Gables, Florida

  Tuesday, August 24, 1943

  “Don’t write this down. I want you to have it in your head.” The instructor rapped his knuckles on the podium. “When you’re in the air, on the job, you won’t have notes to refer to. You’ll need to know this instantly.” He snapped his fingers as he spoke.

  Yeah, well, before he could get it into his head, Paul needed to get it down on paper so he could review and drill it. He clenched his pencil in a sweaty hand. The room sweltered in South Florida’s summer heat.

  Being at the Pan American Airways Navigation School was a blessing. His flight school class had moved on without him while he was on bereavement leave. When a spot opened up in the navigation class about to start, he’d willingly stepped into it. As an astronomer, navigation was a natural fit for him. The coursework proved interesting enough to distract him from his loss.

  The Florida coast wasn’t a hardship either. His classmates zipped into Miami whenever they had free time, but he preferred to walk on the beach and stare out at the endless waves. The other fellows went looking for fun, looking for girls. Paul’s mouth turned down. They didn’t need a morose classmate dampening their good times, which rubbed like salt in his wounded heart.

  He headed for the shore again after supper.

  The little waves, with their soft, white hands, efface the footprints in the sands, and the tide rises, the tide falls. He’d read that last night in Rachel’s notebook filled with her favorite poems, copied in her careful penmanship. She’d loved that Longfellow doggerel. Sad, but beautiful. Endless waves unchanging while generations come and go. The day returns, but nevermore returns the traveler to the shore, and the tide rises, the tide falls.

  Stirring words, but kind of morbid. Paul dug his toes into the sand as he stared out to sea. A wave swooshed up the beach to engulf his feet, covering them with sand and small broken shells. With a sigh, the water receded, a flock of sandpipers chasing after it. He lifted one foot from sand reluctant to release him from its grip. Another wave rushed forward with a gentle roar to erase his footprint. Just like Longfellow had penned.

  And Rachel was never coming back. So, this is how it feels to be dropped into sinkhole from which there is no escape.

  Think of something else. Anything, before he went mad. His brain refused.

  The funeral had been dreadful. He’d stared down into a freshly dug hole smelling of damp soil. Impossible to believe his beloved Rachel lay boxed up in that casket. And the condolences offered by other parishioners. Good grief.

  “She’s safe in Jesus’ arms,” a middle-aged lady had said, her lips smeared with bright red lipstick.

  “God rejoices in the death of his saints,” said an old man with a cowlick.

  Yeah? Is that why you let her die, God? Huh? You wanted her for yourself?

  H
is thoughts might be blasphemous, but he’d loved the Lord since he was a little boy, and this was the thanks he got?

  What took the cake was a wrinkled matron who toddled over and patted his arm. “My dear boy, life will go on. You’ll see. You’ll marry another fine girl and have a lovely family. I know you will.”

  Paul’s fingers curled into a fist. Mrs. Blake must be pushing eighty. What a scandal he would have caused by telling her to keep her opinions to herself. Or slapping her silly. Dad must have suspected his frame of mind. He’d draped an arm around his shoulders and led him away from the grave while Mom politely thanked Mrs. Blake for coming.

  He must have sounded like a whiny little kid when he turned to Dad. “Why do people think they’re helping by serving up pious comments? They’re annoying.”

  “Steady, son. They want to offer comfort in the only way they know how. Words of comfort, or food. Mrs. Mikolsky asked if we’d like to share some of the casseroles she’s received. Despite rationing, people have been quite generous.”

  Paul forced his thoughts back to the seashore. He shoved his hands in his back pockets. If only he could turn off the memories like a faucet, but they kept leaking through.

  It hadn’t taken long to clean out their house. A dollhouse, Rachel had called it. A cute little home all their own. Purchasing the property hadn’t made sense. They should have stayed in Madison, where he’d earned his degree in astronomy. A professor had suggested there might be a job for him at the university. But he was going off to war, and Rachel wanted to be near her family. And it was cheap.

  Now it was for sale. At least the house’s minuscule size left little room for possessions. Packing took less than a day. Under the bed, he’d found a box of letters and photos. All came from Heidi Steinhorst, the German girl who’d gone to high school with them.

  His shoulders heaved as a fresh wave of memories deluged him. Heidi came from the Rhineland in western Germany. He’d learned German from his grandparents who came from Pomerania in the east. Their differing dialects caused them more trouble than a Northerner trying to understand a Southerner’s drawl. Rachel hadn’t understood a word of German and could only shake her head when they convulsed in laughter at their misunderstandings.